


you're just another ghost

by lady_gt



Series: laurence gets his ass destroyed [8]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Multi, Porn with some plot, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25915144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_gt/pseuds/lady_gt
Summary: Laurence can't remember when it was that he lost his virginity.
Relationships: Laurence/Micolash (Bloodborne)
Series: laurence gets his ass destroyed [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840924
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	you're just another ghost

**Author's Note:**

> special thank you to handwizard69 for suggesting this format to me!! we had a long ass back and forth and this was super fun to write aaaaaa
> 
> also i know the initial was nothing ever really changes for laurence but then i thought "hey you know what would make this all worse? if he actually had a brief fuckin moment of hope and then BAM. thats gone. bye bye hope for meaningful intimacy :)))"

There _must_ have been a first time Laurence spread his legs open for someone else.

* * *

"You're filthy, boy," says the man who grips him so tight by the hips he leaves bruises, "But you're a good fuck."

* * *

He's not sure if the customer notices the mess of dried snot and tears coating his face (he wasn't sure why he was crying during it, truth be told) when they finish and hand him less money than he'd asked for them to pay. But he keeps his mouth shut about it. _You're not here to complain, you're here to give people what they want._

* * *

He doesn't know why people still choose him. Why, when they see this boy so thin you can see his ribcage through the flashes of skin on the torn parts of his clothes, do they choose him? Is it because he's easy, because he never speaks up when they give him meager scraps of food or money for letting them fuck him or use his mouth?

Laurence doesn't know. He doesn't care, either. What matters is he gets _something_ out of it.

* * *

The man comes inside of him, wet and sloppy and making Laurence feel as though he's about to be sick. A few minutes later Laurence slumps over, cum dripping from his cock to coat his stomach.

 _One day this will come to an end,_ Laurence thinks. He tries not to pay attention to how the bruises sting. 

_One day I'll have enough money to go to Byrgenwerth, and I won't be weak enough to go through anything like this anymore._

* * *

He presses his back up against the rough brick walls in the alley. Laurence watches his breath condense into faint clouds of white with every exhale - autumn has come, and will bring cruel winter with it. He hates the cold seasons the most. Summer is unpleasant with its humidity, but at least he doesn't have to worry about freezing to death. He brings stiff fingers up to his mouth, feeling moist saliva wet his skin as he bites down. 

"Are you sure about here?" He asks the woman.

She's pretty: Full lips, swaths of red curls framing her face. And by the looks of it she's older than him by... Gods, Laurence isn't sure. He's really not sure how old he is any more, he's not really one for counting birthdays. As lovely as she may be, having looked as though she's stepped out of a painting, she's rough. She pins him down against the wall and forces a hand between his legs, shoving them apart and listening to the stifled breathing he lets whistle out between his teeth. He's trying to keep quiet - this isn't exactly a roaring fire in an inn room tucked away from prying eyes - but he thinks the woman _likes_ the fact that he's so much as making the smallest amount of noise.

"I'm sure. Besides, think of all the coins I'll pay you once it's over..."

Her skirt rustles against him, fingers digging past the waistband of his trousers to pull them down.

"Look how hard you are, sweetheart," she says. "Never thought I'd find someone as pretty as you wandering about - especially on such a cold autumn evening - but I suppose I'm lucky to."

Her fingers are frigid around his cock, stirring his arousal. Laurence has to force his legs to stay apart. He swallows, reaching out one bony hand to help the woman lift her skirts up, the rough edges of his untrimmed and dirty fingernails catching on her petticoats. Neat, too-hard nails run all up and down his cock. When he swallows he tastes something foul and sour in his mouth.

"You're saving up quite a sum of money, I see. Is it for something special?"

 _Byrgenwerth,_ he thinks to himself. 

But he doesn't dare tell her that. He helps the woman pull down her undergarments, dirt-dotted fingers sliding down over clean, smooth skin.

"Yes. It is."

* * *

Naivety is what sells. Laurence finds that clients like a whore that seems too innocent to even be a whore. They hunger for large, pleading eyes, unsteady hands and soft requests of "Could you assist me with that?" Clients adore that illusion of innocence near unsullied. He always finds himself offered more money for it, when he pretends that he's not as street-wise as he actually is - it's almost pitying, he thinks, and while the thought of being pitied repulses him, it's pity that he most likely needs. So he plays that role, pretending he's doe-eyed and new to the business, asking his clients to show him what it is he needs to do for them but not so much that they grow frustrated with him.

"So you want me to use my mouth?" He blinks up at the man, tearing his gaze away from the bulbous head of his cock.

A hand reaches down to grip him roughly by the hair, fingernails edging just past his scalp. "Yes, yes. Use your tongue - ah, good boy."

Really, the man's cock feels horribly crammed and strange-tasting in Laurence's mouth. He almost gags at the feel of bitter skin on his tastebuds, tongue stroking up and down over the man's skin and trailing over his veins. But he keeps at it, sucking lightly and hollowing his cheeks. He doesn't like the man's grip so tight on his hair, nor the fact that he himself is starting to grow hard, but it's what has to be done. He needs the money, needs it so he can finally get away from a place like this. The humidity of the summer air so hot and sticky on his skin doesn't help very much, either.

"What a pretty little mouth you've got there, boy - made to suck cock." The man flexes his fingers against Laurence's hair, tugging his head back to catch a glimpse of his eyes glistening slightly with tears. "Now now, don't cry - can't be upset over this if it's true."

He huffs a little, spit swirling around in his mouth as he struggles not to gag. Though the man treats Laurence roughly and he wonders if this is alright at all, he does not struggle. Really, at this point he doesn't care anymore - what's one person amidst so many, eager for him to spread his legs or use his mouth for them? He knows that things will change once he earns enough money and heads off to Byrgenwerth, but that won't be for such a long time. Nothing ever really changes, it all blurs into the same. They all want the same thing - a whore that's not too forward and sultry but not too pure and chaste, either, because what's the fun in any of that? - and he gives it to them, regardless of the fact that he's growing tired of it.

"You're pretty obedient for a whore that's not from the brothel, taking me down your throat so well."

He says nothing, just stares up at the man. He tries to make his eyes look bright and quizzical - something that comes to him naturally, seeing as how he's done it all before. He plants his hands firmly on the floor, afraid of what might happen if he tries to pleasure himself. Laurence knows it's not about him getting any pleasure out of it, it's never been about him. It's always about what the client wants from him and their getting their satisfaction. He's gotten punishment before for trying to take pleasure in it, and doesn't want to find out if this man is any more or less lenient.

The man pulls out when he climaxes, coating Laurence's face with sticky cum. He flinches when it happens. When it's over he stares at the man, feeling warm stickiness slide down his cheeks and drip from his forehead and down his lips. He always hates when they do this but keeps his mouth shut. A rough hand reaches down to stroke at his face.

"Ah, guess I was a little clumsy towards the end."

"I suppose you were," says Laurence. _Right, just about as clumsy as the other clients who just wanted to see my face coated in cum - not as if I've any dignity left, though._

He wipes cum from his face and licks it from his fingers, blinking and making his lower lip tremble - anything he can to continue playing the part of the naive whore that's all too willing to be fucked. "Anything more you'd like from me, sir?"

"Get on the bed and beg."

He clambers onto the bed, feeling the weight of the mattress creaking underneath his knees. There's an old saying Laurence has heard before: Change is the only constant in life. Whoever said those words must have been unimaginably wrong, Laurence thinks. The faces may be different, some may be more generous than others, but it seems to him that so far this is all he's meant to do, just as the man says. Made to be used by other people as a toy. He can't say he doesn't enjoy some of it - the moaning and panting is always genuine on his part - but in the end, it's never about his pleasure. He's just gotten used to it is all.

So with a heavy heart, Laurence lies on his back and pulls his legs apart like he's done so many times before.

* * *

He must be an unusual sight by now. He'd allowed himself a semi-luxury in buying himself better clothes and getting a bath, scrubbing the dirt off his skin and dressing in clothes that give him the illusion of being some higher class of prostitute. And when Laurence first took a look at himself in the mirror he wondered if that was even his reflection he was seeing: The dirt can't hide how thin he actually is now, even with the slightly better meals he's been getting. He looks small and thin, almost dainty, in his new clothes, skinny wrists peeking out from beneath sleeves and hollow cheeks framed by blonde hair that's far lighter than he thought it to be now that it's clean. And for what may be the first time in his life, Laurence feels... hopeful. he's certain it isn't just because of his new clothes, but because of all the money he's saved up. In spite of all the risk of being stolen from (and he has been), he's managed to scrape by and find himself someone well off willing to give him the last of the money he needs for his time at Byrgenwerth.

"You seem to be in a very good mood tonight."

This night's client reclines on the bed, a glass of red wine balanced lazily in one hand. Laurence smiles a little, backing away from the mirror. He almost dances his way across the room, steps light upon the floorboards.

"And why wouldn't I be? Is it such a crime to feel a little joy for once?"

"Come to me, then."

He walks over to place a kiss upon his client's lips. He tastes so bittersweet, the delicate flavor of red wine still fresh against his skin. Laurence submits - he always has - shoulders going lax when tonight's stranger places their hands on his arms to pull him into their lap. He moans quietly when a wet tongue slips past his lips to part them open, running over jagged teeth and circling invasively against the soft skin inside his mouth.

"It looks as though it really doesn't take much to get you worked up, I see," his client says when he pulls away. Laurence pants for a few moments, a thread of saliva twisting down past his tongue and dripping onto his lip. He reaches a finger up to pull his lip down a little, eyes widening in a parody of innocence.

"I suppose not." Laurence looks away, feigning humiliation. He's learned a thing or two about how to play on the sympathies of others.

"Then get on all fours so I can have my way with you. Come on, strip - wouldn't want to stain anything on that lovely outfit of yours, would we?"

"Perhaps you could help me?"

"Gladly."

He closes his eyes as his client removes his clothes piece by piece, fingers hastily undoing buttons and pulling down pants and undergarments, peeling his shirt off his shoulders and arms so he's left wearing nothing. He's still thin - painfully so - underneath those layers of fine linen and wool, but at least he's not so thin that one could easily pierce past his flesh and hit his ribcage if they scratched hard enough.

"On your hands and knees." He obeys, turning over and planting his hands against the mattress. Laurence peeks out from behind a curtain of blonde hair that's fallen into his face, trying as best as he can to get a glance back at his client. He's greeted with nothing save for the sounds of something wet being poured from a bottle, then flinches a little as something cold dribbles down his ass. Try as he might, though, a light yelp wrenches its way out of his throat at the sensation. Lubrication, he knows. But as slimy and unpleasant as it initially feels, he should be grateful. Not all his customers were so thoughtful as to prepare him.

"Wouldn't expect someone like you to still make such sweet noises."

Laurence smiles ruefully into the sheets. Fingers begin to twist their way inside of him, squeezing into his puckered entrance and jabbing their way around inside of him. He balls up the sheets in his fists, biting down a little on his tongue to keep his moaning muffled. Through heavy breathing, he manages a small reply of, "I'm flattered."

"Let's see if you're still making noises as delectable once I start fucking you."

"I- ah!"

He knows that well-off clients will fuck him slowly, not because they think he's worth taking their time with but because they want to draw out the experience for as long as they can. This one's no exception, pushing past the tight edge of his entrance and cock dragging at his insides. The slowness almost agonizing for Laurence, who squeezes his eyes shut and tugs up at the silk sheets splayed beneath him.

"Gods," they groan, "You feel good."

His cheeks flush, cock twitching and straining against the bare skin of his stomach. They pump in and out of him, and he stretches to accommodate them inside of him. Breathing growing labored, Laurence twists up the bedsheets in hands and makes noise, a string of high-pitched whimpers creeping their way from his throat. He's grateful for the hands that grip hold of him by the hips - were it not for the support he receives, Laurence suspects he might end up collapsing with how weak his legs feel. Again and again his client fucks him, the tip of their cock nudging against his prostate and sending tingles shooting through his stomach.

When they come at last, they bury themself deep inside of Laurence, cum dribbling wet and sticky and filling him up. It doesn't take long before Laurence climaxes too, wet on his skin and trapped between his stomach and the bed. His client pulls out of him, smiling lightly.

He knows it's just another job. But Laurence can't help but feel a little less numb than usual.

* * *

He thought things would be different.

He thought that now that he's at Byrgenwerth he won't have to worry about anything anymore. He fought tooth and claw to get here, spent so many nights servicing people in order to climb his way up to the top. He's cleaned himself up. He's not nearly as scrawny, now that he knows when his next meal will be. His features have softened, blonde hair far less tangled and gray eyes clear and bright. He belongs here, he thinks to himself as he wears the robes marking him as a scholar with pride. He's here where he will be used no more. That is all in the past, this is the here and now.

But trouble finds him like it always does. Things never change.

"Ah - is that you, Laurence? I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."

Laurence clutches his books to his chest, trying to look as unknowing as possible without looking frightened. It's that other boy who approaches him. That boy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth - a tall, gaunt-cheeked young man who can't be more than a year older than Laurence. The part that he finds most interesting about him are his eyes. They're far too lively and full of brightness for someone who looks so hollow and thin. Laurence actually _is_ a little scared - he's certain that this boy wouldn't take very kindly to someone like him from the slums at Byrgenwerth, after all - but Laurence has just learned how to act.

He nods a little. "Yes, I'm Laurence. I'm the new student. You must be..."

"Micolash. I take it you're enjoying your time at Byrgenwerth?"

His tone is sickeningly sweet. Patronizing. Laurence can always tell with people like him. But he nods and says, "Yes. I'd say I am. So far."

"So far?'

"Well, everyone's been quite kind to me - I didn't really expect that. But I don't really know what the future holds and while I'm not one for pessimism I can't say my time here will be a bed of roses."

"That's a rather cynical attitude for a place like Byrgenwerth, Laurence. You seem so withdrawn - enjoy things a little! Lighten up!"

There it is again, that snippy, patronizing tone. Laurence hopes his smile doesn't look as forced as it feels.

"You've been very kind to me, Micolash. I'm just... not exactly used to the environment cultivated here. I'm just trying to be cautious."

"There's no need. Like you said, _everyone's_ been kind to you, Laurence. And I've got an idea as to what I can do to lighten up the mood."

A foolish part of Laurence hopes that Micolash's intentions are as good as his words. Maybe - just maybe - he's so used to angry voices and sharp demands that he can't recognize genuinely good intents when he encounters them. Either way, he feels rather small next to the very tall and gangly Micolash, and he's dealt with clients who were just as sickeningly sweet with their words in the past.

"What sort of idea might you have?"

"I was wondering if we could play a little game - a bet perhaps?"

Laurence blinks. Again, he's not entirely sure why every fiber in his body bids him to walk away as fast as he can but he doesn't. He stays put and stares up at Micolash. It's not so much that he's worried about what the bet might entail - or rather, he is - but he's just as worried about the consequences if he declines. Micolash, he knows, is richer. More well-known. Laurence is a nobody who clawed his way up to Byrgenwerth by using methods that everyone around him might shun him for. Gods know what Micolash might do if he says "no" to a bet like this - he's only just begun studying here, too. What might happen if he declines? Would Micolash know about his past? Would he spread rumors about him? Laurence doesn't know. And he doesn't want to find out.

"What sort of bet were you hoping we could make?"

"Oh, just a very simple one. I bet you that you can't throw a wad of paper into the trash without a professor noticing you."

Laurence shrugs. "Seems pretty silly to me. I like it. What if I win?"

"I have to do whatever you want for the rest of the day."

 _Tempting._ "And if I lose?"

"For the rest of the day, you have to do whatever I want. That sounds fair to me, but does it sound fair to you?"

For all Laurence knows, this could be an illusion of fairness. But he doesn't know his way around Micolash, and he can't risk being humiliated or worse - especially not at a place like Byrgenwerth. So, clutching his books to his chest once more, he nods softly.

"I'll take you up on that bet," he says.

"Good - good! I'll see you in our next class together."

Micolash ambles off, head held high. Laurence watches him vanish into the crowd of students - has that little time really passed? It's felt like hours since Micolash first approached him. He spends the last few moments he can trying to track down that head of dark, curly hair and when he loses Micolash at last he begins to walk in the same direction and heads on his way.

He loses the bet. He thought it was a stupid bet to begin with, but the moment the crumpled up wad of paper leaves his fingers and soars into the air, it smacks the teacher in the head. Master Willem (for that is his name) turns from the front of the class where he lectures the rest of the students and sighs. He is reprimanded, and his classmates giggle, but that's not what sends dread through Laurence. The dread is over the fact that he _lost_. Micolash sits not too far behind him and he doesn't dare turn around. He doesn't want to see the expression Micolash wears on his face, and just lets his heart sink.

At first it isn't so bad. Just Micolash asking him to fetch him a new pot of ink here or a glass of water there. Laurence obeys him, thinking that perhaps this may not be so bad. He meets some of the other Byrgenwerth students, too: A young man named Ludwig, with warm green eyes and a soft smile, and Micolash's good friend Damian. They are both civil with him, perhaps genuinely so, and Laurence laughs a little with them about the silliness of it all and how stupid their little bet is. But at least it'll just be for a day, and no longer. Once his time is up, Laurence can keep his head low and return to newfound normalcy. Besides, maybe if he'd won the bet he would've gotten on Micolash's bad side. As the day goes on, Laurence feels the initial apprehension begin to melt away.

That is, until Micolash requests him to follow him into an empty classroom.

By now, the day's classes have come to an end, so Laurence follows him. They weave past clusters of students making their way down the corridors, past professors till they reach a deserted little room at the end of the hallway. Micolash locks the door behind him with a slight click.

"I've got a little request for you, Laurence - let's hope this is the last one for the day," Micolash says in that sickly sweet voice of his.

"Alright, what is it?"

He presses Laurence against the desk, forcing him to slide into a sitting position on top of it. Hot breath stains him just right below his ear, and he watches a sly little smile creep its way across Micolash's face.

"I was wondering if I could kiss you."

Laurence's stomach lurches. "Of course."

Micolash is rough in kissing him, tongue scraping its way impatiently around in Laurence's mouth, slippery and slick and flipping around inside of him for control. As Micolash grips hold of him by his robes to pull him close, pressing him down against the desk, Laurence finds himself growing hard. Teeth click against his and he tilts his head. He wants this, had an idea of what Micolash was up to and should have realized it farther back. He should have realized that things don't change, or at the very least they change far less than people think.

"I know about you," says Micolash, moving away from Laurence's mouth to his neck. Dark hair brushes ticklish against his skin.

"What-" he sucks in a breath when he feels the edges of teeth nipping lightly across his skin "-What do you mean by that?"

"I know the levels you've stooped to in order to get here." Hot breath fans out against his skin. "Whoring yourself out for money just so you could spend a few years here. Really, I'm just surprised that no one else here has found out."

He speaks between bites to Laurence's neck, taking his time to suck dark marks into the skin. Laurence is a tad grateful for the fact that his uniform manages to cover up the patches of dark bite marks on his neck from where Micolash lightly sank his teeth down.

"Are you going to t-" He tilts up further against Micolash.

"Oh, I'm not _that_ cruel. I just want to make sure that you know your place. You may dress up in Byrgenwerth's uniform as much as you like, but you'll always be the same desperate whore you were before you got here."

Micolash's words sting. He knows it's true. Laurence knows that things don't change, no matter how much he hoped and even genuinely thought they might - no, _he's_ the one who won't change. The faces blur and muddle together, old and young, fair and homely, but he's always the one opening up his legs for them and letting them use him. Micolash isn't any different, even though with every harsh bite he delivers and every fumbling with his clothes he whispers about how he's only doing what he can to teach Laurence his place and remind him where it was that he came from. He finds himself thrusting sharply up against Micolash, gyrating his hips and whining softly. Heat flares up in his stomach even though he knows it's not about any pleasure _he's_ getting out of it - it never was, never will be.

Gods, he's pathetic when Micolash pulls away to start undoing his pants. His hands grip the edge of the desk, eyes staring down at his quickly-hardening cock through his undergarments. He wants this, wants it because it's all he knows and maybe all he will ever know. He squeezes his legs against Micolash's sides, and when he lets out a particularly loud noise of pleasure Micolash immediately claps a hand to his mouth.

"I've got the door locked but that's hardly enough. Wouldn't you agree?"

He gives a fervent nod of his head.

Micolash is quick in preparing him, shoving his legs apart and groping clumsily at his cock. His fingers are quick and dry against that pre-cum coated skin, pushing Laurence up against the desk so that his entrance is visible. His head hits hard wood and he rakes his nails against the desk, scratching faint patterns into its hard surface. Fingers slick with lubrication jab around inside him, a little painfully when nails scrape against Laurence's ass. He smiles at the way Laurence bites down hard on his lip enough to turn the chapped skin there white, hips bucking up and thrusting up against Micolash's hands in the hopes that his fingers might nudge up against his prostate and send that relief flowing through him.

Yet in spite of it all, Laurence knows what isn't so. He knows that he exists not to experience pleasure himself, but to bring it to others by offering himself. It doesn't matter how long he spent saving money or teaching himself to read, because that doesn't match at all with what he's supposed to do.

So when Micolash shoves his way inside of Laurence like so many others have done before, he begins to sob.

He cries quietly so Micolash doesn't hear him, clinging to him by the arms. But as he closes his eyes and struggles to keep his voice down, he can feel the tears sliding all down his cheeks.

"Enjoying yourself?"

He locks his legs around Micolash, squeezing up against his sides and digging his heels into his hack. He clamps down on his swollen erection as though he's hungered for it his whole life. _Yes,_ Laurence wants to say as pleasure pools hot in his stomach, _Yes I am._ But he knows it isn't about him - never was, never will be. So he just whines softly through his tears, reaching up to grip Micolash by the shoulders for balance and lets the tears come.

"Can you imagine what might happen if someone walked in on us and found me fucking you? Makes me wonder what they'd think - I know they'd think of you as the little whore you really are. Isn't that right?"

Micolash isn't gentle. He fucks Laurence quickly, cock digging around harshly at his insides. Hands settle on his hips to keep him in place. When he leans down, chapped lips brush over the bare skin of Laurence's neck and send chills rushing through him - he likes it, wants it, even though it's not about him. It's all about Micolash. Micolash gets to use him and keep him and teach him his place and he's the one who's _supposed_ to get pleasure from this, not Laurence. But he hasn't got anyone else, and there's something borderline inviting (though far from comforting) about familiarity in a place like this, so he clings to that familiarity found in Micolash.

And Laurence hates himself for it.

There are two parts to Laurence's mind. The first is hazed with lust, thrusting back against Micolash and squirming and moaning softly beneath him and craving for more. And the second part of Laurence's mind doesn't feel _anything,_ let alone when warm cum dribbles inside of him when Micolash climaxes and paints his insides in viscuous, hot white. There is no anger, no sadness, no despair, no outrage. There is nothing. He comes a few moments later, dripping white against Micolash as pleasure makes his body seize up and his fingers grip his shoulders tightly. There is nothing then, either. 

Micolash bends down to kiss him. He's invasive and prying, tongue harsh inside of Laurence's mouth. When he pulls away he smiles.

"I won't tell a soul, Laurence. I'm sure that at the moment that you don't deserve anyone knowing."

He doesn't know what to say when he pulls himself off Micolash's cock, stumbling as he stands up.

"Thank you," he says (he doesn't really mean it).

"Of course."

He counts the bitemarks beneath his clothing, feels at his hips for any marks Micolash might have left from pressing his nails down too hard. They redress themselves and Laurence makes his way down the hallway, stumbling a little with each step. He wonders if he should be angry at the sense of betrayal, or despairing because he thought things would be different yet they are not. But as per earlier, he feels nothing at all. Because things haven't changed, not even after he draped himself in fancy clothes and changed the inflection of his voice so that he'd have a seat at Byrgenwerth where he thought his life would change.

_Things stay the same. I shouldn't expect anything different anymore._


End file.
